


Child, Witch, and Lord

by missmarianne



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Creation of Delphi, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cursed Child Explanation, Death Eaters, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Don't Even Know, Implied Sexual Content, POV Third Person Omniscient, Sad Rodolphus, Unrequited Love, at least it's consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-06-08 09:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15239946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmarianne/pseuds/missmarianne
Summary: "Had an outsider been able to see through the concealment charms surrounding the clearing, they would have seen two shapes, ghostly pale but frighteningly dark, intertwined like serpents. They would have seen the figures draw apart. One stood over the other, who knelt on the ground and kissed the hem of its robe. The work was complete..."According to Cursed Child, Bellatrix and Voldemort have a daughter. This story is a possible canon-compliant explanation. Not erotic, not explicit; a story about why's, how's, and when's, taking place before and at the beginning of Deathly Hallows.Doesn't it feel cheap to imagine someone just waved a wand and a child was born?





	1. Incantation

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this quite some time ago (about two years) but never posted! Not the best writing in the world, but I wrote it just for myself after first reading Cursed Child, in an attempt to potentially justify, for myself, how Delphi came to exist at all. This is just one possible explanation! I literally never thought I'd post this anywhere, so I hope you enjoy!

 

 _"My Lord...my Lord..." It was Bellatrix’s voice, and she spoke as if to a lover._ —Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, J.K. Rowling

 

 _“I am…the child of Bellatrix Lestrange and you. I was born in Malfoy Manor before the Battle of Hogwarts…It was Rodolphus Lestrange, Bellatrix’s loyal husband, who on return from Azkaban told me who I was and revealed the prophecy he thought I was destined to fulfill. I am your daughter, sir.”_ —Delphini to Harry/Lord Voldemort,  Harry Potter and the Cursed Child by J.K Rowling, John Tiffany, and Jack Thorne.

* * *

 

Somewhere deep in the Forbidden Forest, three black-cloaked figures appeared out of thin air. They began walking as a slow procession, making scarcely any noise as they traversed the sprawling web of roots that covered the forest floor.

A single, faint star hung in the black moonless sky, and fog roiled over the ground in serpentine tendrils. Each step the figures took through this fog carried a hush that verged almost on holy reverence. They walked with purpose and gravity. Though it was impossible to distinguish their faces beneath the complete darkness of their hoods, their distinct shapes melded out of the shadows of the trunks and branches like ghostly apparitions in the night.

The first figure walked in front of the other two, leading the cavalcade, moving so fluidly it might have been gliding rather than walking. It was a tall, skeletal shape, graceful but terrible as it cut through the forest. The very air around it seemed to grow colder and more lifeless, as if the thing was death itself, come to reap the living from the earth.

Behind this figure, a second shadow moved, not with the same eerie grace of the first, but with excitement, determination. A few dark coils of hair that spilled from the inside of its hood identified it as a woman, a proud woman with her head held high. Her hem rustled as it snaked over the leafy ground. An almost palpable atmosphere of fervor emanated from her being.

At her side, the third cloaked figure was stiff and silent, impenetrable, following the first figure’s ritualistic pace with nothing but unspoken obedience.

The figures traveled for a time more, wordless, walking towards something ahead in the tangle of trees. No stray animals dared venture upon their path. It was as if all the woodland creatures had vanished, or as if they had never existed at all.

Out of the inky blackness in front of them, a great silver shape emerged.

The first figure stopped at the sight of it. It turned its shrouded head from side to side, as if breathing in the night scent of moss and damp earth.

“Here,” it said in a man’s high, cold voice.

The other two stopped behind him. The silver shape in front of them had resolved into a great, flat stone table, comprised of three ancient slabs of rock, surrounded by a clearing. Strange markings and runes had been carved into the table’s face. The surrounding trees were like columns, unspeakably old, and so tall and close together that they obscured all but a narrow pool of dark sky above. The ground was bare, as if it had not seen sunlight in a very long time. The ruin looked like it could have been waiting for these visitors for a thousand years.

“Here, my Lord?” It was the third figure who had spoken, in a thick, expressionless voice. He was examining the stone table, decidedly not looking at his leader or his companion.

"This is the spot,” Lord Voldemort hissed with a faint note of satisfaction.

“But…we are in the Forbidden Forest, are we not?”

“And quite far from everything of concern, Rodolphus. Do you doubt the Dark Lord’s understanding of these matters?”

“I do not doubt, my Lord,” he murmured.

“This is a spot of considerable old magic. It is a spot worthy of my flesh and blood, and it will do.”

The man, Rodolphus, remained silent, ducking his head in admonishment. At his side, the woman had removed her hood, and in the odd, murky light of the clearing, the haughty, heavy-lidded face of Bellatrix Lestrange was discernable. Just now, it was arranged in a look of wild jubilation.

Her chest rose and fell as she turned to address her master. “Say when to begin, My Lord.”

Lord Voldemort drew back his hood with a long, skeletal finger. Against the black night, his skin gleamed white as a skull.

“Patience, Bella,” he breathed. He spun to face the other figure. “Rodolphus.”

Rodolphus stiffened at the sound of his name. “Yes, My Lord?”

“Secure the area. Prepare the spells.”

Rodolphus obeyed, flicking his wand in before him the way one would unsheathe a sword. Jabbing the wand into the mist, he muttered under his breath, and a stream of orange sparks began to fly from the wand’s tail.

Bellatrix’s stare had never waved from her master. 

Voldemort acknowledged his devotee with a cold incline of the head. “Ready yourself, Bellatrix. It is time.”

Her head swung up and down; a mere nod could not demonstrate her utmost readiness. “Yes, yes, My Lord.”  She paused, daring to speak more, and her dark eyes shone with a gloss of joyful tears. “This—is an honor, My Lord—unspeakable. I will try to be deserving—I cannot express my gratitude—”

“That will do,” Lord Voldemort said, and Bellatrix fell silent.

Voldemort turned from her and watched Rodolphus finish the first gesture of the required enchantment. The orange sparks now drifted through the air like embers from a flame, flitting into a ring around the stone. Rodolphus lowered his wand and waited for further instruction.

Voldemort addressed the Lestranges as one, his icy voice shrill and commanding. “I am going to prepare. When I return, I expect the proceedings to go as planned. If you prove yourselves unworthy of this honor, the consequences will be…dire.”

Rodolphus and Bellatrix bowed deeply, the latter so deeply that her thicket of black hair obscured her face. “My Lord,” she whispered from her crouch, but Voldemort was already moving away.

Shadow-like, he glided out of the clearing and into the deep forest, until he was invisible to his followers, and he was alone.

This part of the forest was dark, dangerous to mortal men, and filled with secrets only he could understand. The skeletal trees seemed to whisper to each other, stretching their gaunt fingers into the velvet night. He inhaled deeply, his eyes fluttering back into his head and his neck twisting sinuously. He exhaled, and his eyes snapped open, burning like red hot coals in the night, the slit-like pupils focused straight ahead.

Lord Voldemort did not need to mutter like weak Rodolphus to spawn magic; No, he merely needed to feel it gathering all around, feel it burning within him, feel the rich flow of it rushing under his skin. As if cradling a child, Lord Voldemort removed his wand from the inner folds of his cloak. The instrument seemed to come alive at his touch and his touch alone, humming and eager for use. He obliged it, casting a spell that would ensure conception. The first part of the incantation was complete. His own power astonished him. His own cleverness, his foresight, astonished him too.

In his reverie, Lord Voldemort congratulated himself for the masterful step he took tonight. The new prophecy would be realized because he willed it so, because none but the Lestranges, his most loyal servants, and he himself, knew of its creation. Foolish Dumbledore had thought he could tell the boy everything, had thought he could train the little puppet to best him, but he—Lord Voldemort—was clever enough to do the one thing they would never suspect, the one thing that would assure his immortality.

The plan was without flaw. Ensure the secrecy and protection of his Horcruxes…kill the boy…and plant his heir into the body of his best lieutenant, so his own flesh and blood would thrive like an extension of himself, the most valuable tool yet. It would carry out the oracle’s work and could be easily disposed of should it ever seek to rival or usurp him, though the thought was ridiculous…None could rival him.

Yes, it was a human act, a mere animalistic impulse for those who had not mastered his control. But necessary. Lord Voldemort acknowledged the necessity with diplomatic wisdom. It had been necessary twice before, to manipulate and win favor when all other tactics had failed. It was necessary this time again, but with different reason. Though base, the measure he took, the act involved, was not unwelcome to him at present…in fact, he admitted to himself, it was welcome, indeed…And the benefits to his plan were great. With the completion of the mortal act, his tool would be set in place, and he would ascend once and for all from the realm of man.

It was time. With deathly precision, he rose from the gnarled trees and moved back into the clearing.

The orange sparks of the spell had lit the area in a fiery glow. The stone table gleamed. On it, Bellatrix was lying flat on her back, unclothed, her robe flung in a heap at the foot of the table.

“ _Ashaligca…hoth’igah...rox al’um hox,”_ Rodolphus began to chant. His face looked mask-like, and his eyes unseeing.

He lifted his wand into the air once more. This time, black vapor spewed from the tip and dispersed over the clearing. Rodolphus looked as though he were about to continue the enchantment, but hesitated, a flicker of ill-disguised doubt visible in his surly face.

Voldemort traced his wand with one of his long, curved nails as he looked at his servant. “Why do you stop?”

“I—” blustered Rodolphus.

“Ah…your thoughts, Rodolphus, they betray you. Even a man skilled at concealment cannot fool me. You are honored as you should be, yes, but you find this part of the process…demeaning.” Voldemort’s mouth curled around the word like a caress.

Rodolphus swallowed visibly. “My Lord—”

“You wonder why we do not use magic to achieve the same end.”

A shadow passed over Rodolphus’s face, as if he was startled by the accuracy of his master’s conjecture.

“Ah.” Voldemort’s eyes gleamed cat-like in the darkness. “I see I am right.”

“My concern is entirely for you, My Lord." Rodolphus thrust forth his hands as if to demonstrate earnestness, then bowed his head. “Forgive me. Your word is my command, I trust your judgement as law—but could not a magical…conception… make the heir stronger? Could it be beneficial?”

Voldemort took a step toward his servant, who shivered with fear and averted his gaze.

“ _Lies_ , Rodolphus,” he purred. “You feel yourself threatened by the prospect of this union. Why, it is almost amusing! Do you fear I have come to steal your wife?” He laughed. The high, merciless sound reverberated around the clearing. It was an inhuman cry, more unnerving that a shout.

Bellatrix perched forward on the stone, apparently unabashed by her state of undress. She glared at her husband.

Voldemort’s laughter stopped abruptly. His serpentine eyes narrowed. He took another step towards Rodolphus. The man’s forehead was beaded with sweat. Voldemort was now so close he could have touched the man with one of his bone-white fingers.

“Though weak, you are right to ponder, Rodolphus. Because Lord Voldemort values those who are clever as well as loyal, I will tell you my reasons. I considered such a thing myself. Yes, there are certain benefits to a magical conception,” admitted Voldemort silkily.

“However,” he continued, his cloak swishing as he broke from Rodolphus and strolled around the clearing, “the sort of spell to which you allude would be powerful…a spell which I could easily produce, of course, but such spells leave…inevitable traces. And unlike treasures and trinkets, flesh cannot be magically guarded to conceal these signs. Powerful wizards…unlike yourself…notice such traces, Rodolphus.”

At last, the man’s dull face registered understanding. From her perch on the stone, Bellatrix had listened raptly to every word from her master’s lips, but upon his last explanation, her brow lowered a fraction of an inch, as if she had wished a less clinical reason for the proceedings.

Voldemort continued, “As you know, this is a…delicate instance. The plan relies on utmost secrecy. Should even one other person know of the heir, it becomes utterly worthless. Do you now understand? The necessity of what must be done? We are left with one option.”

Bellatrix raised her voice. “Do not listen to him, My Lord! He knows what must be done and will aid the plan willingly.”

Voldemort regarded her with some interest.

Bellatrix turned to her husband. “How dare you!” she spat at him. “You have no right—asking questions as if you doubt our Lord’s judgement, offering your witless suggestions! You have no right, none, you foolish—It is an honor…an honor, and us, so underserving…” She trailed off, appearing overcome by emotion.

“Thank you, Bella,” whispered Voldemort. “I know, in you, I have a follower I can trust.” She gazed up at him, adoration blooming across her face, but he ignored her. “Finish the spell.”

At this command, Rodolphus muttered in the strange tongue again, and raised his wand. At the final syllables of his incantation, the air of the clearing became completely still. The trees ceased shaking in the wind, clumps of fog floated as if frozen, and the gently spinning orange sparks hung eerily in mid-air.

“Now,” Voldemort ordered. “Leave us.”

Rodolphus stood dumbly.

“Do you ignore the word of the Dark Lord? Leave us!”

Rodolphus moved, but not quickly enough.

“Crucio,” said Voldemort with a gentle twitch of his wrist. At once, Rodolphus fell to the ground, writhing and screaming soundlessly. He flailed like a beetle flipped on its back, contorting, limbs twisting grotesquely. Bellatrix observed the scene but did not move from her position on the table. She looked bored as her husband choked in pain. Voldemort felt a sinister pleasure, seeing the man entirely under his control...even the most loyal followers must be punished, reprimanded…the fool would suffer for his impudence…

Voldemort lifted the spell lazily. Rodolphus rose, panting, from the ground, his face split with agony.

“You pay the price for your continued insolence, Rodolphus.”

“Yes, my lord,” he winced.

Lord Voldemort studied the vestiges of pain in Rodolphus’s face. Ah, yes. “You will return to the Manor and speak of nothing. Guard your thoughts, or this punishment will seem merciful compared to my next.”

With an unsteady bow, Rodolphus departed, his role in the process completed. Bellatrix smirked as she watched the shape of him limping into the trees. Rodolphus was indistinguishable, and then he was gone.

In his absence, all fell silent. Lord Voldemort regarded the scene before him…But all in good time.

He could sense the lust washing over Bellatrix. Her mind he normally perceived as dagger-like: sharp, dangerous, and willing to elicit pain, but it appeared different when laden with her desire…her current thoughts were flushed, insistent, and full of…what? Full of eagerness at the prospect of copulation? Full of love? Voldemort repressed a smile. Of all human idiocies, this was paramount: every man’s foolishness when tempted with the possibility of a mate…Skilled, useful Bellatrix may be, but even his most dangerous servant could be rendered weak by emotion.

Of course, he, Lord Voldemort, was above such weakness…was above emotion…but not, perhaps, above all sensation that a body could experience…He had one now, after all, waiting to be put to use…

“Do you wish to continue?” he asked the woman in front of him.

“Yes,” answered Bellatrix. Her mind echoed her answer. “And you, My Lord?" she breathed "May I?”

Lord Voldemort allowed himself a smile. "As I command.”

The woman shifted forward on the cold stone, her hair dark as sable against its silver surface, and gazed up at her master...

And, just like that, the final step of the incantation had begun.

Now, Lord Voldemort allowed his mind to splinter into two pieces. One fraction noted the proceedings at hand, coolly and with satisfaction. The larger portion occupied itself by plotting the mechanisms that must be set in place: the training his heir must receive to be worthy of the title; the fear and respect and control that must be instilled in it without a moment to waste; the plan to move Potter, in which the Boy would die at long last; and the locations and enchantments that concealed his Horcruxes, which would undoubtedly render his current measure merely precautionary. But Lord Voldemort was thorough where his own life was concerned.

Abruptly, his planning was interrupted. So vivid and ecstatic were Bellatrix’s present thoughts, they intruded onto his without any effort on his part. He detected the longing, the devotion, the saccharine notions of _romance_ filling her mind…but, despite the distraction of her senseless mental sentiment, Lord Voldemort could not deny that there was a certain…gratification in the proceedings…and in seeing something so bent to his will, so under his power…

It was strange to remember, mere years ago, he had been nothing but a phantom, and the concept of a body had been a forgone luxury. He had briefly considered that, perhaps, his new form was already evolved to the point that it would prove incapable of debasing itself thus. But the body he had made for himself was without flaw, and it executed each required task.

Had an outsider been able to see through the concealment charms surrounding the clearing, they would have seen two shapes, both ghostly pale but frighteningly dark, intertwined like serpents. They would have seen the figures draw apart. One stood over the other, who knelt on the ground and kissed the hem of its robe.

The work was complete.

“Go back to the Manor,” Voldemort hissed as Bellatrix rose to her feet, covered in her cloak once more. “Tell them you have been torturing the mudblood teacher for me. Speak of this to no one. Tell no one of what you carry inside you.”

The air had begun to move again, and thick mist curled around her form.

The dark woman nodded. “But what of the Malfoys, my Lord? My sister? Will they not realize soon enough that—” she hesitated, and then breathed like it was a holy thing she spoke, “that I am with your child?”

“Rodolphus has just returned from Azkaban, has he not? Your newly re-instated husband should provide a convenient excuse,” smirked Voldemort. “You may tell your sister and Lucius of your condition so long as they believe it to be Rodolphus’s doing. Do not tell their son even that. You are bringing a new weapon into the world for me, just the same. That is all you tell them.”

“Yes, my Lord.” A flush of anger rose suddenly in the woman’s face. “Would you still have me fight, my Lord? For the first months. The child of my filthy blood traitor sister—I would like to see her killed by my own hand, to spatter her dirty blood myself. Let me fight so I may kill her at last,” she pleaded.

“To deny you that privilege seems unnecessary cruelty. There may soon be an opportunity for you to do so…we will discuss it when Severus returns next month.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” Voldemort paused, considering her. “Bella.”

The witch’s head snapped up eagerly.

“I know how you like to be boastful.” Voldemort’s voice was soft and dangerous as death. “I see it in your mind even now. Ah, yes. You would endanger the plan merely to brag about what I have entrusted you with.”

Bellatrix paled. This had not been what she had expected to hear; she had been hoping for praise or even, deludedly, affection, but he went on.

“No one, _no one_ must know it is mine. No one must know of this night. If you speak of this to anyone else, I will not hesitate to cut the thing from you and kill you both. Do not assume you are safe from the wrath of Lord Voldemort.”

“No, never, I shall tell no one,” she swore, and her voice shook, betraying a hint of her fear.

A soft wind whistled through the trees.

“Tell Lucius and Narcissa that you and Rodolphus expect a happy new addition. I would not have you tell the other Death Eaters even that.” His lip curled. “It would make you seem…weak. In time, I will tell those that must know that you and Rodolphus expect a child. We will find a way to conceal what is growing within you from others.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Now go,” he commanded.

She did, moving from the clearing with one last glance over her shoulder, and then she had vanished. Voldemort waved his wand once over the clearing, removing all traces that anyone had been there. He put all thoughts of the night from his mind. Bellatrix could be counted on, and he…he had more important things to accomplish.

With a gentle turning of the fog, he lifted into the air and was gone.


	2. Revelation

_“You should be proud!" said Bellatrix ruthlessly. ‘If I had sons, I would be glad to give them up to the service of the Dark Lord."_ \--Bellatrix Lestrange to Narcissa Malfoy _,_ Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, J.K. Rowling

 

_‘My Lord,’ said a dark woman halfway down the table, her voice constricted with emotion, ‘it is an honour to have you here, in our family’s house. There can be no higher pleasure.’_

_She sat beside her sister, as unlike her in looks, with her dark hair and heavily lidded eyes, as she was in bearing and demeanour; where Narcissa sat rigid and impassive, Bellatrix leaned towards Voldemort, for mere words could not demonstrate her longing for closeness._

_‘No higher pleasure,’ repeated Voldemort, his head tilted a little to one side as he considered Bellatrix. "That means a great deal, Bellatrix, from you._ "--Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, J.K Rowling

 

* * *

 

 

The woman climbed the stairs, turned the corner, and stopped before of a door. She knocked. As if pulled by an invisible thread, the door creaked open unto a dark chamber.

The woman at the threshold hesitated. The finer features of the room were lost in darkness; the heavy drapes at the window had been closed except for a crack, through which a bare sliver of twilight was visible. The dim lamps burning in the hallway offered some illumination. With their guidance, the woman discerned another figure, sitting on the canopied bed in the center of the room.

“Cissy! Good, you came,” said Bellatrix Lestrange from the bed.

Narcissa Malfoy stepped into the chamber. “What is it?”

“Close the door.”

Narcissa obeyed. It latched with a low click.

“It’s dark,” she said, eyes darting around the gloom.

In response, Bellatrix drew her wand and lazily twisted her wrist. A few candles spluttered into life. Magnified shadows of the two women danced along the walls, and the flicking, orange light uncovered the room.

The surroundings were familiar to both. Like its current occupants, the chamber was not comfortable, though it was grand in scale and rich in decoration, if somewhat cold and impersonal. A deep wine colour, punctuated by sprawling fleur-de-lis, papered three of the walls. On the final wall, an ancient-looking tapestry of a many-headed dragon hung above a large, barren fireplace. There were only three personal touches: all framed pictures, gathering dust on the nightstand.

“Bella,” said Narcissa, creeping towards her sister, “what is it that you wanted to tell me?”

Bellatrix’s teeth glinted in the candlelight. “Can you not guess?”

“It is to do with the recent battle, the flight? Rodolphus’s injury? Something the Lord has ordered?” She paled. “Is it about Draco, is it about my son?”

“No,” snorted Bellatrix. “Not yours.”

“Then—Bellatrix…someone else’s son? What do you mean?”

Bellatrix arched one of her high, dark eyebrows.

Narcissa blanched. “Wait, Bella, do you mean…”

“I do.”

For a moment, Narcissa looked stunned. Then she gave a startled laugh and flung herself onto the bed and her arms about her sister. “I am so happy for you, and Rodolphus,” she cried.

 “Yes,” said Bellatrix, extricating herself from the embrace. “I am as well.” Her eyes found something Narcissa could not see, and the shadow of a smile twisted her mouth. “ _We_ are very happy. But Narcissa, you are forbidden to tell anyone.”

“Why?”

“It’s an order.”

Narcissa hesitated. “The Dark Lord knows?”

Bellatrix lifted her chin. “The Dark Lord knows all.”

“And he approves?”

“Of course—he has always put his trust in me. Who do you think gave the order? He would not have you tell anyone.” She sniffed. “And neither would I. If anyone besides you becomes aware, all your Manor will soon know, and then some stupid or untrustworthy traitor will let slip to the Mudbloods and filth we fight.”

“I cannot tell anyone?”

Bellatrix considered. “The Dark Lord will tell others that he believes to be trustworthy, in time. He believes you should know of my condition—and perhaps Lucius.”

“And Draco?”

“Not Draco.”

Narcissa looked hurt. “My son is trustworthy.”

“Yet he attends school with the _boy_ who has unfairly evaded my Lord yet again, he failed to kill the old fool, and he tattles all his secrets to Snape,” sneered Bellatrix.

Narcissa bit her lip and stared at the floor.

Bellatrix continued, “The Dark Lord insists. Draco is off at school anyway. By the time he is back home, the child will be born and easier to conceal.”

“So you will conceal this information from everyone,” began Narcissa, winding her pale hands together in her lap, “except your husband, The Dark Lord, and me? And my husband?”

Bellatrix tossed her dark hair. “And whomever else in the Manor absolutely must be told.”

“The house-elves?”

“Don’t speak of house-elves, sister, you make me sick,” scoffed Bellatrix. Her expression mollified. “The Dark Lord may allow me to tell one or two, perhaps, bound to secrecy, when the time grows closer. To help me hide it.”

“Will you hide it forever?” asked Narcissa, her voice hushed.

Bellatrix erupted in a fit of laughter at the earnest look on her sister’s face.

“Forever? No. Just until the war is won, Cissy. Then everyone will know.” Bellatrix could not repress the wild smile that spread across her face.

“It is for the child’s safety, and your own,” Narcissa intoned, studying her sister.

“Yes,” Bellatrix replied. Her low voice gained feverish intensity. “And someday our children might know each other, and your son will have a cousin. And all our bloodlines will be pure and perfect.” A fanatical glint lit her eye. “It is the reason we fight, Cissy.”

Narcissa squeezed her sister’s hand. “I cannot wait for peace to come.”

Bellatrix shook off her touch. “You are too worried, Cissy. You are ungrateful. Under our roof, at this very moment, you have cause to be honored, but you do nothing but whine and worry. It is the greatest pleasure to have the Dark Lord in our home.”

“ _My_ home,” corrected Narcissa softly, though she had flinched at her sister’s reprimand.

Bellatrix ignored her. “Serve the Dark Lord faithfully as I have, and he will always remember it was our family who helped him.”

Narcissa did not reply.

“You will be proud of this child, Cissy,” breathed Bellatrix, though she spoke as if to herself. “You will be proud.”

 As Bellatrix stared away, looking almost triumphant, Narcissa’s eyes flicked around the room. They moved from the slender, guttering flame of the nearest candle, to the nightstand below it, to the framed pictures resting there. She seemed to examine these for a moment.

The tarnished, left-most photograph was the thickest with dust. It featured a young couple posed in stiff, formal robes, rings winking on their left hands. The man stared at the woman; the woman smirked at the viewer.

The second was a faded portrait of the same woman, this time alone, peering out through heavy-lidded eyes. The image of youth, health, and vitality, she had gleaming dark hair and a face of striking, untroubled beauty. This portrait was angled to the side as if someone had tried to block it from immediate view, and its frame was cracked as if it might have fallen from the nightstand, or perhaps been thrown.

The last photograph was different, not only because it showed signs of receiving better care than the other two. In it, a group of people waited in an arranged formation, and then slipped familiar masks over their faces. The same man from the first photo stood, expressionless, in the middle of the throng. But, as in the other pictures, the woman was in front. Her Mark blazed on her forearm in proud display. Full of emotion, she gazed at something beyond the frame. Though it was younger, prettier, and not yet hardened, the intensity and adoration therein made Bellatrix’s face unmistakable. Unmistakable—there could be no mistake at what, or _who_ , she gazed with such passion.

Several times, Narcissa glanced from the first two pictures to the final photo; from Bellatrix’s passive smirk to Bellatrix’s exultant, rapturous expression. Narcissa’s eyes hovered on the latter. She whetted her lips and turned to see the face of her real sister—ravaged, sickened and hallowed by prison, but still animated with a feverish spark.

 “Bellatrix,” she murmured, fracturing the silence. “It is…Rodolphus’s child? Isn’t it?”

Before Narcissa was prepared, Bellatrix had wrenched herself off the bed like a cat doused in water. Her eyes burned and bulged, and sparks spat from the wand clutched dangerously in her hand.

“ _What do you take me for!_ ” she hissed. “Is it Rodolphus’s child— _of course it is Rodolphus’s child!_ ”

Narcissa recoiled. Bellatrix looked deranged. Her eyes were wide with mania, and her wand quavered perilously close to Narcissa, who flinched as if she barely recognized her sister.

“I am sorry, Bella,” she stammered, “forgive me.”

“ _What could make you ask such a thing_?” breathed Bellatrix, her chest heaving.

“I merely—Bella,” Narcissa pleaded, her voice growing lower. “Forgive me. But we are sisters, and I know you, and I have trusted you above anyone else, my whole life. I never…I—I thought you didn’t desire children of your own, at present. And I thought your husband—” Narcissa faltered.

Bellatrix’s manner changed with frightening rapidity, no longer furious but suddenly delighted.

“What?” she mocked. “What did you think of my husband?”

“I thought—”

“Really, Cissy? You know very little of me if you thought, all these years, I could—”

“Be quiet,” said Narcissa, a flush creeping over her face.

Bellatrix laughed cruelly.

“Do not think you know everything about me, sister. There is much you do not understand.” Bellatrix’s expression grew harder. “I have always known that if I have children, I would be glad to give them to serve our Lord. It is the highest honor. I want a child, and I want it to raise in the world we are reforming. Do not doubt how much I want that.”

“No,” said Narcissa. “I don’t doubt you.”

“Good. Then conceal this from your thoughts. Swear you will keep my secret.”

Narcissa swore, surrounded by the candles and the heavy curtains and Bellatrix’s watchful stare. Then she left the room and whispered the news to her husband.

She told the suspicion that had entered her mind to no one. Knowing how carefully thoughts were watched in her house, she did not even think it again herself.


	3. Ramification

While Harry Potter searched for the pieces of the severed soul and dreamed of objects that could master death, across the country, out of sight, in a sprawling manor house, a woman endured excruciating pain. It happened a few weeks earlier than anticipated, but it happened nonetheless.

There were six people who knew of the pain she experienced: the woman herself, her leader, the sister, the brother-in-law, the husband, and a private healer who had been deemed worthy in status and credentials, and whose memory had been significantly altered.

A few of the higher-ranking residents of Manor had been told that the woman and her husband expected a child. Since the state of expecting a child was a relatively common one in long marriages, even in their particular circle, no one suspected anything unusual in the proceedings; no one wondered, and no one thought that there could be any additional reason for secrecy beyond the privacy and safety of the expectant parents. The child would be born in the midst of a war, after all.

The other, lessor residents and frequent occupants of the Manor had been told different reasons for the woman’s occasional absences—private missions, instructing new recruits—and they had swallowed these explanations easily. Due to few appearances, loose garments, and powerful techniques of disguise, no one who had not been told guessed at the woman’s condition.

The young boy, the nephew, had come the closest to discovering the secret: he was home at the Manor with inconvenient frequency, and was often darting around corners and sulking in unlikely rooms. Yet, a general apathy for his present surroundings had aided in keeping him ignorant.

The father of the child did not trouble himself much with the woman carrying it, or the child that would be born. He was away often. He was not present while the woman endured her pain and his child was born, though he knew, with a distant awareness in his mind, that it was happening.

The woman only cried out once during the process, a single derisive shriek. More frequently she laughed, wildly and deep in her throat, as she realized the agony that would continue. She was not a stranger to pain—she experienced it whenever there was a summons and the flesh on her left arm burned; she had experienced it frequently when she fought in duels and in battles; and she had inflicted it on others. Due to the precautions that had been taken to secure her room, only the befuddled healer heard her laughs or cry.

The woman endured the pain, and, after a time with it, in the private and protected room of the Manor, an infant was placed in her arms.

The healer tidied the bed. He departed quietly, looking as if he had already forgotten that which had just occurred.

The woman was left alone with the child—her child. It looked up at her and cried weakly. It was so small, so frail, so human, she barely knew how to hold it. She was surprised it was a daughter. She had expected a son. But the woman knew well that females could be powerful, and she trusted that the daughter would grow to be so.

“Isn’t that right,” she breathed to the baby, “you will be the best and most fearsome of them all…except for him.”

The woman was not in the habit of being gentle. But she did feel a passionate pride for the baby in her arms and a fierce and avaricious sense of ownership over what it represented.

It was not that she could not love. She did. She prized the ideals she fought for. She loved her sister. She loved herself. She loved the feeling of her wand becoming a weapon beneath her fingers. She loved the look on people’s faces when her curse hit them squarely in the chest and they registered her victory. She loved playing games; she loved being praised and feared and known. And she loved her master most of all. She had loved him with every fiber of her being, with every burning ounce of her mind, since she had first seen him, since she had first heard of him.

It was he that had taught her everything she knew. Not long after she had finished school, he had trained her himself, and he had taught her all the secrets and skills and powers she wanted to possess. And she had become, in turn, his best lieutenant and strongest ally, and now the mother of his child. The thing she held—the pale creature squirming against her—was half of him and half of her, a product of them both, proof of their union. So she would love her daughter, too.

The woman’s husband entered the room with a soft creak of the door.

“Bellatrix?”

“I have done my duty to the Dark Lord,” Bellatrix said to him. “And look what has happened. We have been honored.”

“Are you happy?” asked Rodolphus Lestrange, regarding the infant.

“ _Are you not_?” The hostility in her voice was so sudden, so sharp and dangerous, that the baby began to weep again. “Hush…hush,” she commanded, stroking her daughter’s face with the tip of her nail.

When the baby fell silent, Bellatrix turned back to Rodolphus, her eyes full of derision, and taunted, “Is poor little husband still mad it’s not his?”

“No. I am glad to do my duty, same as you.”

“Then act like it.” She cooed to the child, “Isn’t that true, little one? Shouldn’t Rodolphus be proud of you? Shouldn’t he be loyal to your father?”

“I am proud. I am loyal,” said Rodolphus.

Bellatrix laughed mirthlessly.

“I am loyal,” he repeated. As if by instinct, his arm flinched forward, an invitation to be handed the child. Bellatrix clutched the infant closer to her, possessively. Rodolphus rescinded his outstretched hand.

 “It’s a girl?” he asked, after a moment.

“Yes,” replied Bellatrix haughtily. “But she will do all that is required of her and more, you will see.”

“Yes.”

Rodolphus cautiously extended his finger. The baby blinked up at it, swinging her little fists. She clasped the man’s finger and babbled. Bellatrix sneered, but Rodolphus continued looking at the child, no emotion visible on his thick face.

“She looks like you,” he noted, eventually.

“No. Hardly. But she will be the best, the purest of blood, and the strongest expect for one.” She breathed to the baby, “Isn’t that right? Won’t you be? Won’t you make your mother proud?”

The baby closed her eyes in response.

“Does she have a name?” Rodolphus asked as he extracted his finger and rose to his feet.

“The Dark Lord will give one.”

“When he returns?”

“Yes. When he returns, he will meet his child. It’s good that you are back,” Bellatrix added as an afterthought, though her tone implied that she did not care in the least.

“Back…from Azkaban, these months?” Rodolphus let out a dry bark of laughter. “Maybe this will finally be it, and I won’t go back again. I might miss it.”

“What is Azkaban to a loyal follower?” Bellatrix spat. “You should be glad to do your duty.”

 “We were in there 12 years. Then it was another year for me.”

“You should get better at not being captured.”

 “How did you escape capture at the Ministry?” Rodolphus asked, his heavy-set face impassive.

“I have told you that already.”

But the man shook his head. A fierce glint possessed Bellatrix’s eye as she deigned to retell her story.

“I had killed the Animagus Black, and then I fought the little Potter boy, in the Atrium. Then the Dark Lord arrived, along with Dumbledore. The Dark Lord nearly killed the sniveling brat and the old man, but we were ambushed by the Ministry. The Dark Lord took hold of my hand. He Disapperated with me,” she finished.

Rodolphus seemed to have expected this answer.

“I see.”

“The Dark Lord values those who serve him well,” Bellatrix muttered, more to herself than to Rodolphus or the baby. “And I have served him well.”

The child had drifted off to sleep.

“You can go now,” Bellatrix said, not looking at her husband. Her stare did not waver from the bundle in her arms.

Rodolphus left the chamber.

Alone again, Bellatrix lifted a curved finger and traced the features of her baby’s face. How much did she resemble her Lord? He had entrusted her with the most precious…the most secret…

A wave of wild glee engulfed her.

The child awoke, as if stirred by her mother’s thoughts, and began to fuss.

“Shh…” cooed Bellatrix silkily. She began to nurse her child.

 

�   �   �

Lord Voldemort saw the child two weeks later.

Bellatrix had let herself be shut away in the locked, sound-proof room since the birth, tending to each cry in the night, each hungry wail. She served her daughter the way she served her master: devotedly, passionately, and obsessively. Gradually, her body began to return to its former self. Eventually, with a well-placed charm or two, it would be hard to tell the ways it had bent and stretched while carrying the child.

Rodolphus occasionally assisted with the infant rearing. His assistance was infrequent, however, because Bellatrix hated to see him with the child; as if he had any claim to it, as if it was his to hold or touch.

There was a nurse, too, under a memory charm but pure of blood, who could be summoned to care for the child should business call Bellatrix away in the near future. The nurse was convenient, as Bellatrix missed what she did best: fighting. Fight she would, as soon as the occasion demanded it—she would revel in the chance to exercise her wand again, to kill for the cause, to torture if she could…

When Lord Voldemort came to see the child, he approached the bassinet in which she lay, his face inscrutable. Bellatrix lowered her eyes in respect, and then looked up smiling.

“My Lord,” she greeted him. Voldemort acknowledged her with a cold incline of his head. He gave no sign that he was alone with the mother of his child. He fixed his red stare on the contents of the bassinet.

Moments passed, with no sound but still air and the half-breathed mumbling noises that the baby made.

“Delphini,” Lord Voldemort hissed, at last. “That is the name.”

The sound of it, the clink and slither of the ancient syllables, reverberated around Bellatrix’s mind. _Delphini_. She did not know the meaning, though she recognized it as a derivative of Delphinus: a star-name, like her own, like her family custom—did her Lord honor her with the preservation of this tradition?

“The wizards in the ancient seat of Greece believed Delphi the center of the world.” Lord Voldemort said quietly, still not looking at Bellatrix. “Delphi housed a great witch, a Seer, whom the base muggles naively called an oracle…who gave prophecies…”

Fitting, Lord Voldemort thought, since the existence of this child was his own homage to prophecy. Though he would not have said so to Bellatrix, he silently relished how magical the name sounded, how positively unmundane it was. Delphini was a name no one else had ever, or would ever, have. This, too, was fitting of his heir and the continuation of Salazar’s bloodline. Much more appropriate than a common name—like _Tom_ , for example, abhorrent and base—though he would definitely not voice _any_ of those thoughts to Bellatrix.

As if curious, he laid a long, white finger on the infant’s forehead. The child, now christened Delphini, looked up at him, feeble and motionless. Her wide eyes reflected his figure above her.

Lord Voldemort withdrew his touch.

Without a second glance for Bellatrix, without a second glance for his daughter, he left the room.

In his wake, Bellatrix turned back to the child. Delphini was stirring. Her heavy head had lolled to its side, staring at the place where her father had just departed.

“You love him too,” Bellatrix murmured. She dared to do so, since she was certain her master was beyond earshot, and would not bother to listen even so.

“You love him too,” she said again to the child. And for some reason she would not have been able to articulate, a tightness scratched at Bellatrix’s throat. She bit it down. Delphini, pale and pink and powerful, gurgled.

Bellatrix knew it to be a different sort of love—but passion was passion, and power was power. And she and her daughter had something in common. A unity. An understanding. They would both do anything for him, wouldn’t they?

Bellatrix was accosted by a realization, a realization which probably should have been apparent years ago, a realization which probably should have been apparent from the first moment of meeting. The baby kept her from fracturing into a thousand violent shards as she contemplated it. Lord Voldemort would never love Bellatrix. She knew this now. The knowledge hurt, twisting more painful than any Cruciatus Curse, though it changed nothing. She had never been the type to relent. And she would still do anything for him, wouldn’t she?

“But he will love you,” Bellatrix said to her daughter, smiling through the wet, choking sensation she fought.

And perhaps that was enough.

A glint of magic sparked in Delphini’s black eyes—her father’s eyes—as she looked past her mother, towards the place her father had stood. And just like that, her loyalty was already won, her fate already decided.


End file.
